


3157F Ellesmere Road

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come back to Baker Street it’s... cluttered without all of your things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	3157F Ellesmere Road

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Felicia and Samantha.

The flat isn't tiny or dingy. It is, in fact, rather spacious, located on the top floor of a four story building in Dollis Hill. The building is old, to be sure; there is no access to the roof terrace or to the small balcony that is just off of the living room due to disrepair, but it's nice. It's quaint in a rough sort of way, the brick exposed in a manner that's not at all congruent with the current trend of "exposed brick and beam," it's exposed because whomever owns the building can't afford to upgrade and insulate.

It's no matter, really, as there is a fireplace that he can put an armchair or two next to and he is never short on thick, woolen jumpers. The flat is far from home, however, and no matter how much effort John puts into making the space soft and livable, it feels like an enormous, empty cavern.

It feels like a tiny, cramped closet. It is somehow both at the same time.

It suits him just fine; it’s no home, but it’s something. It’s the place he’s lived for the past two years. It’s the place that he’s lived for the past eighteen months while Sherlock remained dead. It’s where he’s lived for the past six months and where Sherlock has showed up, lingered about, broken into.

Sherlock’s pushed his way right in, acknowledging John’s shock and rage in short words, settling himself into the cracks in the plaster and the spaces between creaky floorboards. Something like a virus, something like a balm.

“I said I need space,” John says one evening a month after Sherlock has returned, walking into his flat alone. Sherlock is sitting on his window sill -- it’s rather large, a whitewashed, seat-width board -- smoking. “And oi! Don’t... don’t smoke!” John hastily crosses the room and plucks the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers. He tosses it out and throws the window down, locking it in one swift motion.

He leans back on his palms, regards John. “Helps me think,” Sherlock says, keeping his gaze trained out the window.

“Did before too or so you said, still don’t give a damn,” John says, making his way back to the kitchen, keeping his back to Sherlock all the while. It’s not the same, even though for a second or two it feels exactly that way, a moment he’s lived a thousand times over. “You’ll be leaving now.”

“Will I?” he tries for petulant but his voice quakes, unpracticed in his defiance.

When John turns, there is no question in his gaze. Sherlock shrugs to standing and nods in John’s direction as this is no matter, no matter, he’ll be back and leaves through the front door.

John walks the flat and checks each and every window, the back door down to the dumpster, makes certain that the ladder for the fire escape is righted. He doesn’t watch Sherlock’s silhouette as he makes his way down the block, shadowed by the crusting brick buildings.

He doesn’t, he won’t.

\---

One month and one day later, John reminds him that nothing has been resolved. “You can’t just walk back into life, into yours or into mine. This all takes time, even you have to understand that.”

Sherlock toys with the pack of cigarettes in his hand and John has to work every shred of his control not to reach out and bat them away. It’s compulsion. Sherlock is skinnier now -- not much, not noticeable to anyone else -- but there’s a more severe cut to his jaw. The bags underneath his eyes have bags.

John wants to order chop suey and make Sherlock watch him eat it, make him beg to be fed because he’s feeling particularly vindictive; he’s allowed, he reminds himself at the flush of guilt.

Sherlock wears secrets etched to every inch of him. He still hasn’t told John the entire story and John still isn’t sure that he wants to hear it.

Sherlock shrugs deeper into his great coat. It’s warm out and there’s no need; he’s hiding from John and it’s very clear, specifically when he goes to great lengths to avert his gaze. “I do understand,” Sherlock mentions offhand and makes the next bit land as casually as he can possibly manage. “I simply don’t like it.”

“Too damn bad,” John says too loudly, grips the cup of coffee in his hand and fights the urge to toss it against the ground. Instead he takes a great long sip and looks to the sky. “Thanks for the...” and he lifts his cup in Sherlock’s direction.

He walks out of Gladstone Park without a backward glance.

\---

Sherlock continues to show up uninvited. What’s more is that he sneaks into John’s flat while he’s home. John’s not entirely sure how the man gets onto the roof (he truly can’t imagine him making the leap from any of the buildings over, his heart stops and his breath shorts when he thinks about it... the similarities.)

“Are you entering through the roof? That’s in disrepair, I’ll have you know,” when one morning, at three after a particularly long shift at the surgery John hears a window creak open. He’s got toothpaste around his mouth and a brush against his tongue but even that can’t mask his obvious frustration.

There are no sounds as John rinses and spits, checks his face in the mirror before shutting the light. “Whatever window you opened please close it, it’s rather cold tonight.” He pads through his open living room and through to his bedroom.

There’s a false wall and so when Sherlock settles into the armchair, John can hear the leather crack quite clearly. He wars with the fury and affection within him until he finally falls asleep.

\---

They’ve done eons of damage to one another. John wears his rather plainly, in anger and aggression and agitation. Anger is the most plain, lingering around his eyes and the frown lines of his mouth; he wears it well with practice, knows just how to serve it for maximum effect. And aggression, shoving Sherlock’s chest when he tries to step up to him in the kitchen when he’s making tea. He wears in it a host of ‘a’ words that he can’t think of with Sherlock staring at him from his bedroom door.

This is too much. John begins to think about breathing and forgets how to. Sherlock has done this dozens of time in the past but now, in the castoff from John’s open window, his eyes shine. The catch the light and look grey-gold and alien and John’s teeth itch to bite down on his bottom lip.

He does nothing, says nothing, allows himself this moment to watch Sherlock as Sherlock watches him. It’s in his court, this imaginary ball and will be until he gives Sherlock a decision. For now, he can draw this moment out as long as he could possibly like.

There are rumpled trousers and a shirt that’s not buttoned properly and he looks a mess; the sight almost sends John grinning but then he remembers why he’s here and what he’s been through. John makes a mental tally of the places Sherlock’s mentioned that he’s been, how many stamps must be on his passport.

Or not, depending. He’s not gone into enough detail to ascertain whether any of this was remotely legal. It doesn’t matter, the legality, it really doesn’t. What matters and what still stings, slashes in and flays him is eighteen months.

So John steels himself and curls his hand into a fist beneath his pillow.

“What did I say about the bedroom,” he’s quite proud when his voice fails to waver.

John’s mind swims, struggles for purchase on either side of his emotions. He feels a bit mad, to be honest and he has to take a long inhale to center himself before he becomes overwhelmed. It’s simply the duality of wanting to reach out for Sherlock and to shut him out completely.

It makes all the sense in the world to John -- the conflicting feelings -- and he’s well aware that Sherlock likely does not. But he doesn’t have it in him to _explain_ this to him; it’s selfish but he wishes that Sherlock would somehow work it out for himself.

That certainly won’t happen. For the moment, they’re entirely broken, the only salve for it time. John knows time won’t solve everything, won’t render everything crystalline, but he needs days and months to ruminate on exactly who he was mourning all of this time.

A friend or a something more? A liar or the absolute truth? Someone he can live with, someone he can’t live without, someone who makes him live? Eighteen months should have been enough but John needs more and he feels absolutely no guilt in requesting it.

Sherlock asks for John’s time in minutes and hours and when John can’t give it, he huffs and retreats to his fire escape to smoke and sulk.

\---

It’s the bedroom again and John feels the need to find a pulpit and lecture the man on boundaries and doing more harm than good. But Sherlock is in a vest and standing there in the moonlight looking rather ethereal; John knows that _Sherlock_ knows the effect he’s tried to set and so, John settles back into the pillows and just looks.

He appreciates the form without being taken into the charade.

But Sherlock doesn’t smile or take a step forward, he runs a hand through his hair and rolls back on his heels, shoulder shifting against the door jamb. John can’t help it, he glances over his bare shoulder and biceps and forearms, just as sturdy as ever.

He’s barefoot, sleeping on John’s living room floor, then.

“There were days when I needed you more than anything in the world. It’s true. Don’t you see? More than the work, more than the fingers in the crisper, I needed you more than anything,” Sherlock tries and as bare and raw and devastating it is to hear, John can’t help but-

“Past tense then,” he breathes it into his pillow, two o’clock in the morning. “If you’re not gone when I wake up you’ll greatly regret that.” John actually falls back to sleep, fitfully.

Sherlock watches him until he stirs and then maneuvers out the front door, throwing the bolt with his picks as he exits. It wouldn’t do to leave it unlocked, not in this neighborhood. Anyone could get in.

\---

He’s making tea, four and a half months in.

John emerges from the shower and stands in the middle of the living room, looking into the small kitchen. Sherlock has his hands splayed out on the counter top, two mugs between his arms as he looks at John.

And this, John realizes, is stalemate. Hand at the towel against his head, he digs his nails in, far enough back that Sherlock can’t see and manages to hold his gaze. Definitive, this is. The first time Sherlock’s given him any sort of resistance in his boundaries.

It’s too much to say that Sherlock’s eyes are piecing, but they’re unwavering, not quite staring really, just holding the moment between them.

“Two sugars?” he asks.

Sherlock nods.

John nods back, “Ta,” and reaches out for the mug that Sherlock hands him.

Their fingers don’t brush as the mug is passed no matter how much John wishes they would. He doesn’t even bother trying to wish he hadn’t thought that this time around. He wants to touch Sherlock, fleetingly, deliberately, any way he can.

His pride holds strong.

Sherlock clears his throat and rounds the breakfast bar to settle primly in the more tattered of the two chairs before the fire. “Lestrade has asked for me -- rather, for the both of us, you and I -- to come on a... particularly perplexing embezzlement case.”

John stares wide-eyed at Sherlock, wondering if this is a step he can take right now, if ever. But the witty retort is out of his mouth before he can think any better of it. “Nice alliteration that, tell me more.”

\---

A quiet night in. John hadn’t exactly invited him but then again he hadn’t said anything when Sherlock had followed him out of Angelo’s. He hadn’t said anything when Sherlock followed him into the Tube. He didn’t say anything when John took a seat and Sherlock moved to stand in front of him, his coat draped along John’s sides.

He doesn’t say anything now as he he ponders whether he wants a nightcap or not.

“Come back to Baker Street it’s... cluttered without all of your things,” he says as he builds up a fire. There’s soot on his nose; John says nothing.

John folds the newspaper in his lap. “You must be mad, well, madder than I originally thought.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of the Sports page.

Sherlock tilts his head, strikes a match, holds it up before his eyes. “Wishful thinking.”

“Very,” John confirms.

\---

John goes back to Baker Street for the first time five months and six days after Sherlock has returned.

It’s much the same and he’s expected this, so he’s not certain why this throws him so terribly. However, the clutter that had been almost decoration is gone now, Sherlock journals and knickknacks either tucked away or thrown away. 221B looks so much like a canvas waiting to be filled with color, something. But it’s still the same.

John’s right cheek jumps when he notices the absence of the skull on the mantle. “You’ve tidied?”

Sherlock shrugs and shuffles some papers into order, “No bother having a mess if there’s so one around to appreciate it.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his mouth, “That wasn’t appreciation.”

“Well,” Sherlock says with his own smile though he makes a bit of a show of trying to hide it with the papers.

John sits down in his armchair (and it is still very much _his_ ) and it’s quiet. The smile still warms his lips and he looks up to find Sherlock looks much the same. They find their laughter together, at the same time and when Sherlock passes by John’s chair, he drops a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

John feels it right down to his cells.

He leaves roughly seven minutes later.

\---

Two days later, John receives a call on the landline at his office.

“I have a case!”

“I can’t just now Sherlock, I’ve got an overnight shift!”

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“...I can’t do this without you.”

“You can.”

“...I don’t _want_ to.”

\---

The bathroom is foggy with humidity from the shower. John makes no move to finish up or exit, instead reaching for a bar of soap. “But the doors were locked from the inside! All of her valuables remained!” Sherlock cries, fingertips digging into the flaking wood of the doorframe.

He’s not stepped into the bathroom, wouldn’t dare.

“This boundaries lecture,” John says lazily, can’t help it, the water feels far too nice. He runs his hands over his biceps and down his forearms, working fingers between fingers. When he hears a ‘thunk’ against the floor he pauses and wipes a hand down the frosted glass door of the shower.

Sherlock has dropped his great coat to the floor and as he catches him, he’s sifting a hand through his hair. He pushes it back from his eyes and even through the warped-glass, he can make out the perspiration at his hairline. Sherlock surveys intently the remnants of John’s clothing, dropped haphazardly across the tile.

“Stop staring at me,” Sherlock rumbles and looks right up, right through the glass.

And John says the very first thing he wants to say, doesn’t worry about thinking over it for too long. Sherlock is standing there in black trousers and a black tee-shirt and John says what he wants to say. He says, “No.”

The breath that Sherlock sucks in is nearly visible, the puff of thick air entering his mouth. “Oh.”

John thinks, _’Oh’_ and _’Shitfuckbollocks’_ and slides the door open with trembling fingers. “Come here, now,” it’s a demand. John’s not sure he can take one moment of indecision, not like this. Sherlock blinks and steps forward, toes off his shoes like he knows. It’s fluid, the way his socks fall to the floor and when he lifts his shirt over his head John doesn’t bother hiding the nervous swallow.

Bespoke pants are soaked as he steps into the shower with John, hair plastered to the side of his face rather unattractively; no matter, no matter. Rivulets down John’s face obscure his vision and he steps out of the spray only to pull Sherlock in. It’s ludicrous, entirely ridiculous but John hooks his fingers into the loops of Sherlock’s trousers, pulls him in closer, stumbling.

Sherlock gasps around a sheet of water and then settles into the warm spray. They stand there for a bit, breathing around water.

“I didn’t give up on you, I...” John holds his forehead nearly to Sherlock’s but they’re not touching; there’s nothing but the truth left now. “I just loved you without knowing it and it _hurt_ , right?” John takes a breath and releases a shaky laugh. “Love, not... not past tense.”

Sherlock pulls back, slides a thumb over John’s cheek, the tip ending at the side of his mouth. “Unfortunate consequence of all of this,” Sherlock concedes and John’s brow jumps.

“Unfortunate?”

Sherlock sighs and brings their foreheads properly together. “People can’t choose to feel... you’d choose to feel this bottomless pain?...”

“A thousand times over,” John confirms quietly, though vehement, and they both stop counting the minutes and hours.


End file.
